


dissolve

by spock



Category: My Bodyguard (1980)
Genre: Blackouts, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Extra Treat, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Neck Kissing, Power Outage, Pre-Relationship, Roughhousing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:24:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4982680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door leading out to Clifford's balcony hasn't been locked in months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dissolve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carolinecrane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinecrane/gifts).



Power outages have an over/under of about ten minutes before the threat of complaint transitions over from being a bothersome issue into something that'll cost the hotel real money. Clifford watches his father pace around their apartment, eyes fixed resolutely on the clock as each minute ticks by, his flashlight-lit face becoming progressively more grim. At seven-fifteen, with no sign of the electricity making a return anytime soon, his shoulders drop. He mutters his apologies to Clifford and Gramma before shuffling out the door to face the hotel's guests. The door's just barely closed behind him when Gramma shoots out of her chair and sprints towards their junk drawer. 

"What're you doing?" Clifford unfolds himself from the floor and tries to peak over her shoulder. He gets an elbow to the stomach for his trouble. 

Gramma stuffs something into her pocket before Clifford can get a good look at whatever it was and walks over to the door, stuffing herself into her coat. "Okay, no, _where_ are you going!" 

She snatches the flashlight from between Clifford's fingers, says, "Looting," and slams the door as she leaves.

Clifford stands in the middle of the room for a while, letting the dark swallow him, appreciating the silence. It takes exactly two minutes and four seconds of listening to the clock's ticks for the whole brooding routine to get boring. 

He bangs his knee on no less than seven different pointy things as he collects candlesticks from all around the house, and then proceeds to nearly set his hair on fire while he tries to light the damn things. The trial of it all has him feeling disproportionately proud of himself once he's actually finished. He flits his eyes around his bedroom with his chest puffed up, congratulating himself on how well he managed to space out the candles, so that no corner is left in shadow. 

"You," a voice says, and Clifford startles so aggressively that he trips over his own feet and topples down to the floor, on his back. He whips his head around and sees Linderman hovering inside the balcony's doorway, his eyebrows all the way up by his hairline, teeth glinting in the candlelight. 

Clifford wishes that he had it in him to cuss, or laugh the whole thing off, but mostly he's just glad that some axe murderer isn't about to lop his head off. He can't remember the last time he thought to lock the balcony and it's only now that he's realized that someone else other than Linderman might come through that way. Even with his heart racing, it doesn't seem plausible. Who else besides Linderman would want such a direct line of access to him, criminal or no? Most days, Clifford's surprised that Linderman wants it at all, that he uses it as much as he does. 

Clifford presses both his hands into his chest and sucks in as big a lungful of air as he can manage. "You're letting out the heat," he says, dumbly, once he feels able. Linderman steps further inside and pulls the door closed behind him as Clifford rolls onto his side and levers himself up off the floor with shaking hands. "What're you even doing here, anyhow?" 

"I was just walking past and I saw the lights flicker out across the whole block. Figured I should come make sure you weren't pissing your pants." He gives Clifford a sly look and settles himself on the edge of Clifford's bed. "Looks like it was a good thing too. You scared to be home alone?" 

Clifford rolls his eyes. " _Just walking past_ , yeah right." He kicks up at Linderman on the bed, but Linderman catches a hand around his ankle before Clifford can even make contact. He gives Clifford's leg a sharp tug, which has Clifford sprawled out on his back again before he even knows what's happened. 

"Your dad forget to pay the electric bill or something?" Linderman teases. 

"Shut up," Clifford shoots back. He shifts his foot this way and that, but Linderman's grip doesn't loosen. Clifford decides that he doesn't care and says, "Hey throw me down that book I've got on the nightstand, yeah?" Linderman flops onto his back after he tosses Clifford the book, his feet still planted firmly on the floor over the side of Clifford's bed. 

Clifford rereads the same line over and over as Linderman toys with his sock. The few times that Clifford sneaks a glance at up at the bed he sees that Linderman's just staring up at the ceiling, not paying any attention to his hand absentmindedly messing with Clifford's foot. He certainly doesn't seem to have any idea that it's driving Clifford insane. 

"It's starting to get cold," Clifford says, almost entirely because the silence is starting to get to him. "You never really think about it, but blackouts don't just mean it being dark, it makes you lose the heat too." He pauses and waits to see if Linderman has anything to add, as if this is the one time in a million where that would actually happen. When Linderman keeps quiet, Clifford carries on with talking to himself. "Wasn't it supposed to snow tonight? Man, this is gonna suck."

Linderman sighs long and hard. Clifford wonders if his entire existence is a bother to him. "I guess it is sorta cold," Linderman admits a full minute later, which retroactively explains the sigh. He hates to admit that Clifford's right about anything, but even more than that, he hates having to agree with Clifford on things. 

Clifford raises himself up onto his elbow and smiles at Linderman, wiggling his foot. "You want to borrow one of my sweaters?" He frowns. "Wait, you don't think you'll burst through the seams or anything, right?" 

"Haha, very funny." 

Linderman finally lets go of Clifford's foot and scoots himself to the head of the mattress so that Clifford can join him up on the bed, Clifford's finger slotted between the pages of his book, keeping his place. Clifford sits at the tail-end of the mattress and they both slot their legs under the covers, but Linderman's too tall and takes up too much space for it to be comfortable for either of them. They shuffle around a bit, random parts of their body warmed by the blanket while others are left unprotected and at the mercy of the cold. The contrast makes Clifford hyper-aware of how warm his ankle had felt when Linderman had been holding it. It suddenly feels as if the temperature inside the room has dropped a full twenty degrees now that he's not. 

Clifford's teeth start to chatter and Linderman swears before wrapping one of his too-big hands around Clifford's too-thin shoulder, dragging Clifford between his legs, his front to Clifford's back. The movement makes the blanket twist and bunch up between them. Linderman straightens it out; he wraps it around his back and hooks it over his head, bringing the excess down to wrap around Clifford in front of him, building their own little nest. 

Clifford tells himself that there's nothing weird about this, and that they've been in this position a hundred times before, whenever Linderman lets Clifford drive the bike. It nearly works in helping to calm him down, but then he remembers that all those times there had been that same too-tight feeling in his skin, just like he's feeling right now, and he's right back to being as flustered as he was in the beginning. 

"My ears are still cold," Clifford says, randomly. He instantly wants to strangle himself.

Linderman's chest vibrates against his back, something Clifford realizes that he's grown accustomed to on the bike, in the middle of the hallway at school, while they're waiting for lunch in the cafeteria line. Linderman has always kept his laughter to himself, does it softly and near soundlessly, but Clifford's gotten used to the feel of it against his back. It's as normal as breathing. 

Suddenly, the night doesn't seem as scary. 

Clifford smiles as Linderman dutifully hunches over until the sides of their faces are level and theres no longer a gap between Clifford's head and the top of the blanket. The cold air can't slip between them now, and their combined body heat warms the bed up quickly. 

"Thanks, Ricky," Clifford says shyly, like he always does whenever he tries testing out the name. Linderman turns his head just as Clifford shifts his own, and his lips press into Clifford's cheek. 

They both freeze, which means Linderman's lips stay pressed against Clifford's face, his skin going warm, until Linderman stiffly pulls away. Clifford, for once, has no idea what to stay, so he presses back against Linderman's chest, hoping to convey something words can't. 

Linderman drops his head and buries his cold nose into Clifford's neck. It causes Clifford hiss in discomfort, which makes Linderman laugh, and just like that, everything seems alright again. 

Clifford slips his hands out through the gap of the blanket and flips his book back open, angling it wider when Linderman's arms tighten around his waist, chin hooking over Clifford's shoulder so that he can read along. 

Linderman busses his lips to Clifford's neck whenever he finishes, a sign for Clifford to flip over to the next page.


End file.
